I'm A Miller... Get Me Out Of Here!

When people start excising themself about some voting scandal on 'The X Factor' or 'Strictly Come Dancing', it usually goes straight over my head, simply because I never see any of those programmes. At that time on a Saturday night, I'm usually on a train coming back from a match, or in the pub - though if my parents are reading this, I'm on a train! I'm aware that 'I'm A Celebrity... Get Me Out Of Here!' (or as it's known in our office, 'You're A Celebrity... Get Some Dignity!') is back on ITV. I'm also vaguely aware that the 'celebrities' on this series include Robert Kilroy-Silk (he's had his hand on my knee, you know), that bloke off 'EastEnders' who used to play a Miller but is actually a Gooner and some model who styles herself 'the ultimate WAG' but is actually the girlfriend of someone who plays for - er - Peterborough. But none of that concerns me, because if I want to see something shocking and unlikely, I don't need to switch on Esther Rantzen eating a live cockroach, I can just go and watch Rotherham play Gillingham. If there's one ground where we know we're guaranteed to have the referee conned into sending one of our players off, see a perfectly good goal disallowed or have the ball cross the line without a goal being given, it's the Priestfield.

Of course, we're not thinking about this as we meet up at Victoria. We usually turn up at Gillingham en masse, and today is no exception, as the travelling party includes Jenny, Tim, John Kirkland, Rob 'the jinx' Elston, my brother (who's providing the photographic reportage for the day), Clarkey and Stephanie, Nigel Bowns, Phil, Diamond and The Future Mrs Diamond - the latter three having come all the way from Rotherham in true 'gluttons for punishment' style. The South Norwood Gentlemen's Rambling Association (better known as Chris Turner, Andy Leng and Paul 'I was the Serge Gainsbourg of Masborough' Martin) have already set off, intending to visit The Barge, which is a decent pub but one which is just too much of a trek from the ground unless you really, really like your ale - which they do.

Our calling point is The Will Adams, which is a true London Millers favourite. Stephanie, her Gillingham-supporting friend Laura and Steven Armitage play pool, managing not to take anyone's eye out with a cue in the process. while my wee bro gets stuck into the chilli cheesy chips, which are always the high point of his trip. The landlord likes us because we turn up mob-handed, behave ourselves and put plenty of money behind the bar, and as he's a Gills fan who regularly travels to away games, he quizzes us on what the DVS is like and asks us where we go drinking - which, of course, turns out to be the very places he goes drinking when he's in Sheffield!

And so to the game, of which the less said the better. Gillingham go ahead to a fairly soft goal after five minutes, but we're back in it and looking threatening when Danny Harrison goes in for a tackle with both feet and gets the ball - though from the way their player goes down, you think he's taken a huge chunk out of him, too. He hasn't, but the ref's already reaching for the red. That, of course, changes the whole complexion of the game, as we have to sacrifice Omar Garcia, who's been playing really well on the wing, to bring on Mark Hudson and shore up the midfield. Meanwhile, I decide to concentrate on the most entertaining thing on show all afternoon - the unofficial 'ostentatious stretching' competition that's going on behind the goal line near us. Gillingham's Mark McCammon seems keen to demonstrate how he can wrap his leg round the back of his neck, while Drewe Broughton retaliates by going through chapters one to three of 'The Kama Sutra For One'...

In the second half, we try to press on and get caught on the break a couple of times. Three-nil. Then one of the Gillingham players goes for the ball and catches 'Don' Warrington instead (Micky Cummins will later claim this was a deliberate attempt to hurt him, and who am I to argue?). By now, we've already used our three subs, so Don has to struggle on, even while we're debating which outfield player should go in goal (my money's on five foot nothing Jamie Yates), and Gillingham help themselves to a fourth. 'Gillingham,' muses Tim, 'are they Kentish b*stards or b*stards of Kent?'

Nigel, Phil, Diamond and TFMD have already left for liquid refreshment, some time around the third goal going in. The SNGRA decide to make an evening of it in Rochester. Stephanie has a sleepover at Laura's. The rest of us trudge back to the Will Adams, where the Gillingham fans tell us they'll see us again next year, sensing that despite today's display we're not going down and they're not going up. Soon, John, Tim, Jenny, my bro and I are on the train back to London - probably the earliest we've left Gillingham in years, but then no one's in the mood to hang around today. John heads back to Harrow and the rest of us have a swiftie at the Wetherspoons' at Victoria (and for the benefit of my parents, I'm on coffee by now). Robert goes for the bus to Chelters, Tim and Jenny make an abortive attempt to meet Ted and Wycombe Paul at the Doric Arch and I go home to watch some rubbish Saturday night TV. Thank God that's over till next year...